


Unforeseen Consequences

by brethilaki



Series: Twins [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV), The Internship (2013)
Genre: Bad Decisions, Canon-Typical Violence, Cliffhangers, Crossover, Deception, Emotional Manipulation, Knotting, M/M, Manipulation, Mating, Miscommunication, Mystery, Season/Series 03, Sequel, Suspense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-25
Updated: 2013-09-03
Packaged: 2017-12-24 14:25:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/941040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brethilaki/pseuds/brethilaki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to Honest Mistake.</p><p>What Derek thought was a one-night stand turns into a massive headache when Stuart shows up in Beacon Hills with an unintended souvenir.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lying by Omission

**Author's Note:**

> This took a lot longer to finish than I meant, partly because of stuff but mostly because I am a lazy motherfucker.

 

In the end, Stuart was grateful for the fight: at least it would explain away the bruises on wrists and hips, and the ugly red mark on his neck.

But when he checked his reflection in his phone, sitting on a high bank over the San Francisco Bay.... his skin was clear.

Stuart stared.

“Look up,” Billy advised. “There's so much more to see beyond that tiny screen!” And before he realized what he was doing, Stuart's head had raised itself slowly and he was looking out over an impossibly vivid scene of early sunrise, colors and details sharp, unnaturally sharp—maybe, Stuart thought, it was the lingering effects of alcohol and sex... but when he removed his glasses to wipe them on his shirt he realized that his vision was still clear.

Not just clear but minutely intricate, and not just his vision: all of his senses seemed overperceptive. He could see fish darting around beneath the waves far below, and he watched them, entranced. One jumped, and he heard a splash as loud as if the water had been in his ear. He shook his head to clear it (had that creepy stripper Derek slipped something in his drink?) and felt his clothes rubbing against his neck as he moved so acutely he found himself tugging at the collar of his shirt: the bite mark was gone (and that had been an impressive mark—Stuart was pretty sure the creep had fangs), but it was clearly still irritated.

Then his nose twitched.

“Does anyone else smell pork rinds?”

“I don't know,” said Billy thoughtfully. “What do pork rinds smell like?”

“Pork.”

“Oh. Yeah. Well, all I smell is booze breath.”

“Yeah...” That smell was overpowering. Suddenly Stuart heard a crunch, so seeming near his ear, like the splash had been, that it made him start. It was followed by the inconsistently distinct voice of a man saying, “Hey, dude, give me some of that,” as if through a phone with bad reception. (Which was ridiculous; Stuart's phone got great reception.) Looking down at the water again, Stuart's suddenly sharp eyes picked out a small recreational fishing boat containing two men, one of whom (“CRUNCH CRUNCH CRUCH fuck you, dude, get your own snacks!”) seemed to be eating pork rinds. Stuart blinked and flinched at the onset of a headache, covering his ears. This could not be normal drunk-person behavior.

“You look pretty bad,” said a voice, loud even to Stuart's plugged-up ears. Apparently Billy was still trying to talk to him. “At least tell me you had fun.”

“It was okay,” Stuart forced out through his increasingly strange and annoying hangover.

“Okay? Just okay? You don't have to understate things for me just to look cool, you know.”

“What do you want me to say?” Stuart snapped. “That it was the best night of my life?”

“Only if it was.”

And with a sudden clarity that seemed to extend beneath the superficial level of his senses, Stuart paused to realized,

“Yeah. It was the best night of my life.”

  
  


The more the strange hangover didn't go away, the more Stuart started to think that maybe it wasn't a hangover.

 _Maybe I just notice more things because I'm paying more attention,_ he thought as he looked into Neha's eyes for the first time sober and realized that she was actually kind of pretty.

 _Maybe it was something I ate,_ he thought when he woke up on the lawn in front of Google Headquarters with no memory of how he had gotten there.

 _Maybe that's just how he smells_ ,he thought when he swore he could sense Billy's fear while preparing for the tech support challenge.

And so using his human adaptability and inhuman capacity for dismissal, Stuart was able to effectively ignore the superhuman powers awoken in him by Derek's careless mid-coitus werewolf bite.

That is, until the night of the full moon, which happened to fall two days beforeGoogle charter buses arrived to shuttle Stuart and the other interns to LAX for their flights home.

Stuart went to bed early that night with a headache and a mind to put his bouts of sleepwalking to end with a good night's rest. Niggling at the boundary between his waking and subconscious mind as he drifted was the untraceable trace of a scent that had been bothering him since the morning after the best night of his life. It wasn't the pork rinds—gross. No, this was something baser, more elemental, a kind of smell Stuart had little frame of reference to identify—and very weak, making it the more frustrating trying to work out its source. If he had to describe it, Stuart would probably have compared it to sweat, but less foul.

It grew stronger as he slept, until it tore him out of a violent dream, less than half conscious and more than half wolf. Were-Stuart threw off his sheets and dove out his window, completely distracted by the summoning smell of something crisp and human and unsettlingly familiar. He followed that trail toward Beacon Hills—conveniently not so very far, as the werewolf runs—until he found himself circling one suburban block, closing in on the house at the radius of the circle that long minutes of prowling had shrunken to a point.

The window was open to the cool night air and Stuart slunk inside, nose flared, eyes locked on the fitfully slumbering figure on the single bed to his right.

Stuart's fingers flexed, scraping the carpet. Breathing heavily, he stalked up to the bed on all fours then stood up like a man, fingers still twitching and claws glinting in the moonlight.

Stiles stirred. His mouth formed a few dream-kisses and his eyes squeezed and relaxed before snapping open.

“Scott?” he said in a bleary, squinting haze.... then froze. Stuart could hear the human's breathing stop while his heartbeat became deafening: and over it all he could sense that same sharp scent of terror he had smelled on Billy before, radiating out of him in tantalizing waves.

When Stuart bared his fangs and growled low, the boy beneath him squeaked. The wind wafting through the window grew chill, carrying with it an eerie chant. Stiles’s eyes widened.

“Oh shit,” he squeaked, unable to stop the sudden flow of words. “You’re the murderer aren’t you? You want to kill me because I’m a virgin... I, okay, there must be some misunderstanding here because... I'm not actually a virgin! Ha ha, I know—oops! Right? I'm sure it happens all the time. But I—I have totally had sex before. Like, at least, like... twice. So why don’t you just crawl back out my window and we can both go on with our.... lives. Yeah.”

As he spoke and Stuart watched with tilted head and golden eyes glazed amber, Stiles inched his hand toward his phone, sitting on the bedside stand. He was hairsbreadth away when the chanting stopped, his words faltered, and Stuart tore into his chest, eyes and claws flashing.

Stiles started, gurgled, blood pooling in his throat and trickling down the corner of his mouth. His eyes traveled in slow motion down to his chest where they found a deep and gaping wound and a shining red hand retracting from the carnage. Above him, Stuart’s eyes turned bright and gold again, and he looked in animal confusion down at his carbon copy.

Stiles gasped and clutched abortively at his chest, whimpering. Stuart reached tentatively down to touch his arm, but as soon as he did, his hand closed compulsively in a vicelike grip and locked in place as his veins bulged: not with strain, but with the transference of healing life. Stiles breathed deeply as his wound sealed shut without so much as a scar, and Stuart’s eyes shone. Seconds later, the world went dark for them both.

  
  


~

  
  


Stuart woke up in an unfamiliar alleyway with no memory of what had happened the night before. That in itself was pretty par for the course, but when he blinked and looked up and around him, the first thing that met his eyes, staring back at him with panicked disbelief, was Derek, the creepy stripper from the bar.

Stuart jumped. “What are you doing here??” he screamed, and Derek looked shiftily left and then right, and hissed a deliberately hushed reply,

“I should be asking you that! Considering you are the one _sleeping outside my apartment_.”

Stuart raised his eyebrows in shock, “...What?” and Derek’s expression grew increasingly concerned.

“Do you... _know_ what you’re doing here?” he asked slowly. Stuart shook his head, still stunned, and Derek fidgeted uncomfortably. “This isn’t the first time this has happened to you since we met.” (Stuart shook his head again.) “And you’ve...” Derek sighed. “You’ve been hearing, seeing, _smelling_ things,” he continued. Stuart nodded very slowly.

“What the hell is going on?” he stuttered, blinking rapidly. Derek buried his head in his hands and rubbed his temples.

“Do you remember,” he grit out, “at the club, when you thought my eyes were red.”

“Um... vaguely?” Stuart said, exasperated and uncertain where this was going but disinclined to play along. “You... uh... said they were contacts...”

“I lied,” Derek admitted, and Stuart raised an eyebrow, unsurprised and unamused. “Stuart, I...” Derek went on, “am a werewolf. And now, so are you.”

Oh, _come on_ ,” Stuart spat, angry and insulted, but Derek cut him off with a roar of dominance, fangs flashing and eyes red—and Stuart felt himself cowering, instinctively submissive and uncannily animal. He felt fur on his face, but it faded as Derek’s eyes turned dark and Stuart found himself on hands and knees, shrinking against the brick wall of the building behind him.

He stood up slowly and tried to speak, but couldn’t find his voice. Derek filled the silence instead:

“Your wolf mind must have lead you here, searching for the alpha who turned you—me.”

“And where exactly is _here_?” Stuart broke in.

“Beacon Hills,” Derek answered. “Not too far from L.A., but to run all this way—”

“Whoa, hey, now, wait! I need to get back to Google!” Stuart cried. “I have to... I have a plane to catch. Home!”

Derek regarded him gravely for a moment before speaking. “I wouldn’t advise that,” he warned. “An omega—a beta without a pack—is lonely, and easy prey for hunters... or other wolves.”

“A... what? What are you even—?”

“Or how about this? If I let you go before you learn how to control this, you are _going_ to kill someone. Next full moon, if not sooner, your wolf mind is going to take over, and by the time your human mind wakes up, there will be a trail of blood behind you so red your hands will never be clean again. And the wolf mind doesn’t discriminate between family and stranger. If you want to put everyone you know in harm’s way then by all means, get out of my hair. But, again, I wouldn’t advise it.”

Vestiges of some terrible dark memory festered deep in Stuart’s mind as he listened, but their only lasting presence in his mind was an intangible feeling of guilt. Stuart stood and stared miserably at Derek for several moments letting that feeling fill him before asking in a small, defeated voice,

“What do I tell my family?”

  
  


~

  
  


“I had the creepiest dream last night,” Stiles told Scott at school the next day, shivering at the memory. “I woke up and there was this werewolf standing above my bed about to kill me, but when I looked up, it was me!”

“And?” Scott prompted.

“And it, like, ripped out my throat with its claws,” Stiles continued, fingering his neck and grimacing.

“Then what?”

“... I woke up. But get this, Scott, my shirt was torn. Right where I clawed me in the chest. Like it was a premonition, or something. Like I’m psychic.... or, you know, whatever Lydia is.”

Scott looked concerned but vaguely skeptical. “You ripped your shirt in your sleep?”

“I guess. Scott, I don’t know, I was asleep! The dream, though... it was very... vivid.”

“Well what does it mean?”

“I don’t _know_ , Scott... I got the impression, like in the dream, that....” he trailed off.

“That what?”

“That... that I was some kind of sacrifice, okay? There was this... weird chanting in the dream and I don’t know, this is exactly why I can’t afford to be a virgin anymore! I need to find someone to sex me up, quick... since Danny fell through.”

“I... don’t think I can help you with—”

“And we need to tell Derek.”

“To sex you up??”

“No!” Stiles blushed. “About the dream.”

“Oh!” Scott breathed. “Yeah, I guess...”

The bell rang and both boys darted into their classroom, continuing to whisper back and forth until the eminent risk of detention drove them to silence.

  
  


“What are you doing here?” said Derek a few hours later when Stiles walked into the loft. He started and went on the defensive.

“I was actually going to tell you something maybe a little _important_...”

“Make it quick,” Derek sighed, glancing nervously at the stairs he had instructed Stuart to wait at the top of out of sight until Stiles had left the loft.

“I had a dream...” Stiles began haltingly and Derek snorted.

“I’m not your psychiatrist, Stiles—”

“Hey, will just listen to me? I think it means something!”

Derek rolled his eyes but fixed them expectantly on Stiles, who told him the same thing he had told Scott. “What if it’s like a premonition?” he finished. “What if I’m going to be the next sacrifice?”

“There haven’t been any murders for a week, Stiles,” Derek assured him—but his voice seemed unnaturally high and his eyes wild, flickering frantically and at random intervals to the same spiral staircase.

“Sacrifices,” Stiles corrected slowly, following his gaze. “They were sacrifices, Derek.”

“We don’t _know_ that—”

“What’s up there?” Stiles interrupted, nodding his head at the increasingly suspicious stairwell.

“Nothing,” Derek answered, a little too quickly.

“Oh. You don’t mind if I... take a look, do you?”

“I’d rather you didn’t go snooping around my house.” Derek’s snide attitude barely concealed his panic.

“Well, if you have nothing to hide...” but he stopped and Derek stiffened as the stairs suddenly groaned under the weight of footfalls... and down came Peter. He paused, blinked, then made for the exit, drawling,

“Didn’t mean to interrupt... carry on, boys...”

Stiles and Derek watched him go. Only when he was gone did Derek speak again, in a tired voice.

“Go home, Stiles.”

Stiles narrowed his eyes, but left.

  
  


~

  
  


They met at Scott’s house later to “work on an assignment” and compared notes. Scott had been at work while Stiles went to see Derek, and had shared Stiles’s dream with his boss.

“No, you’re right—they’re definitely sacrifices. At least, that’s what Deaton thinks,” he confirmed when Stiles had shared his half of the notes. “It’s a Celtic thing—preparation for battle. Druids, or...” Scott looked down at his actual notes. “or ‘darach,’ he said. A druid gone bad.”

“So my life could still be in danger!” and if there was a “told-you-so” tone to Stiles’s voice it was really meant for Derek and not for Scott.

“You mean more than usual,” Scott agreed dryly, and Stiles gave him a resigned shrug. Then he turned his gaze to the floor and his thoughts inward, mulling over something that was bothering him, but that he hadn’t yet determined the best way to bring up.

“Suspects?” Scott suggested, since their spring of new information seemed to have dried up.

“Lydia,” Stiles said without looking up. “Obviously not... consciously, so that would leave someone else behind her... pulling the strings.”

“Lydia...” Scott added the name to his notes, and Stiles glanced over at him.

“Derek,” he added while Scott was still writing.

“Derek... Derek?” Scott looked up from his notebook, waiting for an explanation.

“You know the alpha pack has it in for him. If anyone is preparing for a battle, it would be Derek,” Stiles rationalized, hesitantly enough that it was clear he didn’t like the sound of what he was saying.

“You think Derek is sacrificing people?” Scott sounded... not skeptical, exactly; not unwilling to believe—but at least a little surprised. “You think... Derek is going to sacrifice _you_?”

“I don’t know!” Stiles admitted, frustrated and flustered. “You heard my story. The way he was acting... sketchy. He obviously knows _something_...!”

“I guess...” and Scott sounded a little more doubtful, but he hadn’t been there, and he hadn’t seen. And he didn’t know how much it pained Stiles to think he might mean nothing more to Derek than a price to be paid—and Stiles didn’t know why that should bother him so much, because had he ever been given any reason to believe otherwise?

  
  


~

  
  


“What did you do last night?” Derek growled, bursting into the room where Stuart waited, texting his parents.

 _Got invited to stay in Cali for a few days with friends_ , he had written. _Be home a little later than planned – hope you don’t mind._

 _My son has friends lol?_ his mother had replied. _Just glad to hear about the job, have fun & dont get to wild lol_

Stuart sighed, a mix of relief, frustration, and embarrassment at his mother’s phone grammar. He put down his phone and glared up at Derek.

“What part of ‘I don’t remember how I got here’ is not making it through your furry head?” he deadpanned, fighting the urge to cower under Derek’s stare.

“Try,” Derek seethed, furious, curious, and eager to learn if Stiles’s life was really in danger, whether by serial murder or the product of Derek’s shameful lust. Dark and guilt flashed through Stuart’s mind again, but he couldn’t grasp them, couldn’t place them, and he shook his head.

“How?” he said helplessly. “Aren’t _you_ supposed to be teaching me how to do this stuff? I don’t have unlimited time here.”

Derek tried to breathe slowly.

“Yes, maybe... maybe if you learn to control your wolf mind, you’ll remember what you did when it was controlling you. Come on, we have a _lot_ of work to do...” He led Stuart down the steps, where Cora had begun working out.

“Don’t push yourself,” Derek admonished, stepping off the last stair and striding toward his sister. Stuart paused near the bottom steps, waiting impatiently for the family drama to blow over while secretly admiring the fit and bare-midriffed girl who sprung gracefully from the floor to backsass Derek.

All three were suddenly interrupted by the blaring, flashing red noise of an alarm. Derek went instantly alert head whipping to Stuart, who didn’t wait to be told before scurrying back up the steps. As he hid in silence again, eavesdropping snatches of a sinister-sounding confrontation, Stuart wondered numbly what the hell he had been dragged into.

  
  


~

  
  


It was close to eleven o’clock when Isaac appeared in Scott’s room. His voice was casual when he asked to spend the night, but his eyes were pleading—downcast and dejected. Scott couldn’t refuse him, but he couldn’t help but ask....

“Derek kicked me out,” Isaac explained with practiced nonchalance, and when his voice cracked they both pretended not to notice. “I think I’ve been replaced...”

“Replaced? By who? Cora?” Scott prompted, feeling bad for pressing the subject but feeling even more strongly that he needed to know. He thought back to Stiles’s reluctant accusation—Stiles himself had been called home by his dad. He had seemed nervous about leaving, and made Scott promise to keep his phone at hand.

“I don’t know,” Isaac admitted, “but I think there’s someone else around. He keeps them hidden...” (Scott shivered) “... but I can feel them... even smell them. You know they smell familiar. Like...”

Scott’s phone rang and he jumped. Stiles’s name flashed across the screen. Scott’s heart rate accelerated as he picked up the phone and answered it.

“Hey, you okay?” No answer. He tried again. “Stiles, are you there?” Distant noise. “What was that? Stiles? Okay, hold on I'm coming over...!” The sound of a phone being handled at the other end. Scott held his breath...

“Scott?”

...and choked on it. “Derek.”

Isaac shot him a look of wide-eyed and brow-raised wonder.

Derek was breathing heavily, and before Scott could ask what the hell was going on, he launched into an explanation.

“Stiles disappeared.”

“What do you mean _disappeared_???” Scott cried, mind and heart racing.

“I don’t _know_ what I mean, Scott, I just know what I saw. There was a swarm of bees and—”

“Where are you?”

“Outside... outside his house... trying to find his trail!”

“What were you doing at his _house_??” Scott said accusingly.

“I was just... I saw the bees and I followed them! I was nearby!” Derek lied. Actually, he had been concerned and curious about Stiles’s dream—though mostly he had been restless, hovering nervously around the borders of the Stilinski property, uncertain exactly of what he meant to do.

“Whatever, just where are you?” Scott asked in growing panic, glancing at Isaac, who had been watching him with questioning concern. “I—we’ll come help you look.”

There was a brief pause.

“Start at Stiles’s house. Do you know how to track a phone?”

“I... um...” Scott floundered.

“I do,” Isaac interjected.

“Uh... yeah.” Scott finished. There was another pause, and a sigh.

“Start at Stiles’s house... if you haven’t found anything after half an hour... find me. And be careful! Both of you.” He hung up.


	2. Self-deception

The last thing Stiles remembered was waking up to a strange buzzing and finding an alarmingly dense horde of bees circling his bed. Still half dreaming, he’d been about to roll over under the covers and deal with it in the morning when something sprung through his window—something dark and furry—and he was suddenly jarred into full awareness, remembering his dream.

But its eyes weren’t glazed, nor were they golden—they were bright and red. He squinted. Derek? It was hard to tell with all the fucking bees. They seemed to be enclosing him, cutting him off from maybe-Derek, whose violent air-slashing seemed to have no effect on their growing numbers.

Stiles’s vision went black with bees, and his mind followed.

  
  


Stiles awoke tied to a tree with his hands fettered behind him—which, okay, obviously not an ideal situation, but he appeared to be (a) alive, (b) unhurt, and (c) alone, so all in all, things _could_ be worse. But he could guess, if not exactly _where_ he was, then _why_ , and the eminent possibility of being made a human sacrifice not something to be taken lightly.

Stiles’s ears strained against it, until... a crunch. His heartbeat soared, hands jerking at their bonds, instinctively trying to raise and protect his face and neck.

A rustle of undergrowth in front of him, and he closed his eyes...

...but at that moment Stiles heard a sound he never thought he would be glad to hear in the middle of the forest at night while tied to a tree: a feral canine growl. His eyes snapped open, straining in the dark, just in time to catch a black shape with flashing red eyes pounce out of the underbrush and rush toward him.

“Derek...?” he squeaked in breathless but incredulous relief. Out of the quiet black around them, the sound of buzzing grew. Moving quickly, Derek slashed through Stiles’s bonds, sending him staggering forward from the tree.

“Stiles!” Derek grabbed his shoulders as he slumped. “Are you alright?”

“Come on, let’s get out of here!” Stiles hissed urgently in reply, grabbing Derek’s hand and tugging—but this time Derek was the one to stumble, and when Stiles tried to catch him, they both toppled to the forest floor, Derek knocking the wind out of Stiles as his landed on his chest.

“What the—!” Derek yelped, rubbing at his neck. Stiles cringed and reached up to poke a swelling pink blister at the base of his shoulder. It oozed a green-tinged puss and Stiles quickly retracted his hand.

“Tell me you’re not allergic to bees...!” he said frantically, while Derek blinked rapidly above him, trying to lift his torso.

“Think...” Derek rose to his elbows, finally and with some effort. “Don’t think they’re normal bees... something in the sting. You go, I’ll be fine. Take my phone, I’ll hold them off.” The bees were forming a circle above them, buzzing louder and louder as if closing in for a kill.

“Are you crazy??” Stiles's voice was high and thin. “I—” _can’t leave you_ “—can’t run that fast I’ll never—”

“Stiles! Hurry!” Derek persisted. “They’ll find you... Scott...”

“Okay, how about this...” Stiles brainstormed, ignoring Derek's pleas. “They want _virgin_ sacrifices, right? So we have sex! Right now! No more virgin Stiles!”

“ _What_?” Derek said. “Stiles, _get out of here_!”

And Stiles was just squirming out from under Derek’s body ( _maybe the bees will leave him alone if I... maybe Scott will find me and..._ )

...when suddenly the roar of an engine cut through the thickening air like light through a veil. It was Scott, of course, but it wasn’t Isaac with him: an arrow twanged from the back of the bike—and Derek fell forward on instinct, curling his body over Stiles protectively—but when it hit the tree behind them and exploded, the only thing it released was a cloud of smoke. The drone of the bees lulled sleepily.

Derek struggled to his feet, letting Stiles crawl from under him.

“Where’s Isaac?” Derek asked.

“Still looking for Stiles. Apparently Allison’s dad,” Scott gestured back at her with his head as he spoke, “had some kind of secret map showing where bodies were going to be taken and found—we tried to call you but you wouldn’t answer, so we sent him to sweep the hotspots while we came to find you. But...” he looked at Stiles.

“This place wasn’t on the map,” Allison finished his thought.

“And I’m not dead, sorry to break your dad’s pattern.” And if Stiles sounded irritable it was just because he was shaken. “And, um, can we have this discussion somewhere else? Because I don’t know what arrow did, but—”

“Smoke bomb,” Allison explained quickly. “It won’t—”

“—last long,” Stiles finished. “And Derek here needs to see the vet...”

“It's wearing off,” Derek interrupted. “I’m fine.”

“Suuuuure you are—oof!” Stiles felt the wind knocked out of him for the second time that night as Derek lifted him one-armed and threw him over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

“See? Fine,” (Stiles squirmed indignantly) “but you’re right about leaving. Scott, you get Allison home. I’ll make sure Stiles is safe.”

Scott squinted mistrustfully, waiting for a cue from his upside-down friend.

“What about Isaac?” Stiles said, lifting his head away from Derek’s (warm, muscular, but invitingly soft) back to be heard.

Derek was silent, Scott poised on a point of indecision, waiting for something to tip the scales one way or the other. Stiles sighed.

“I’m fine, Scott,” he said, almost exactly as Allison said,

“I’ll call him.”

After another moment’s hesitation, Scott sunk back into the seat of his bike and revved the engine before weaving off in what Stiles assumed must be the direction of the road.

“Um,” he said, shifting on Derek’s shoulder. “Is there possibly a more... comfortable way to do this...?”

He could hear Derek’s smirk—“You seem pretty comfortable to me”—and blushed, but before he could protest, they were accelerating into the night.

  
  


~

  
  


Derek slipped gracefully through Stiles’s bedroom window and deposited him on the bed, then stood awkwardly by as if trying to decide whether to say something or just to leave. Stiles was just opening his mouth to decide for him when Derek stuttered lamely, “Are you alright?” and looked away.

“I'm not the one who got shot,” Stiles replied softly, sinking into the bed with a sigh. Derek's eyes flickered over to him and away again.

“I shouldn't have let this happen. I'm.... sorry.”

Stiles sat up. “Whoa, what? How is this... how is any of this _your_ fault?”

“I should’ve—”

“Should’ve what? Derek, you were literally standing guard outside my window _all night—_ you were, weren’t you?”

Derek’s silence answered for him. Stiles felt his heartbeat pick up just a little, his face and neck grow hot, his stomach jolt pleasantly.

“Derek...” (he liked the way the name felt on his lips so he said it again) “Derek, literally the only way you could have protected me would be to...” Stiles trailed off, remembering his panicked suggestion back in the forest.

“I...” Derek stared, flustered. “I’ll be outside... nearby... if you need me,” he finished, walking for the window.

“Derek, wait!” Stiles whisper-yelled, and Derek hesitated just long enough for Stiles to spring from the bed and get between him and the window. Derek was staring again, wide-eyed and conflicted. “Derek, please—they’ll come back! Tonight!” Stiles hissed. “If you couldn’t stop them last time what makes you think you’re going to be able to this time?”

Derek started to answer, but was a rhetorical question and Stiles cut him off.

“There’s only one way they’re going to leave me alone and you know it.” He took a step forward.

“Stiles,” Derek said in a voice that was mostly firm but held a quiver of doubt, and which made Stiles curl his toes in his Converse. “I’m not going to... take advantage of you,” Derek insisted, and he could have easily shoved Stiles aside if he really wanted to, but all he did was take a half step back.

“At least I wouldn't be a _virgin sacrifice_!” Stiles fought the urge to scream it at him—what was it with werewolves and failing to understand human frailty? “You can tell the cops I forced you.”

“Stiles...” Derek looked helpless, almost pleading. “You're vulnerable, I don't want to take advantage of _that_... I don't want to hurt you, don't want to... make you do something you'll regret. Something you don't really want.”

“I want it!” Stiles blurted out. “I mean, the whole... imminent death thing is a definite incentive, but... I want it... I want... it to be you.” Blushing and blinking his eyes down and away from the suddenly intense and disbelieving stare Derek was giving him, Stiles stepped haltingly forward until they were close enough that Derek could feel the growing promise of an erection through Stiles's jeans... and Stiles could feel Derek's answer.

Finally he looked up.

Derek's mouth had come unhinged, his shocked and uncertain eyes staring darkly down at the point where their bodies touched. He swallowed.

“Stiles...” he warned again, more softly but still hesitant and unsure. So Stiles grabbed Derek’s hips and pulled them toward him with a small gasp.

“ _Fuck me_ ,” he whispered, pleading... and in a flash he was pinned to the bed.

  
  


Growling, Derek tore through Stiles's t-shirt with a sharp claw—his breathing was heavy and staggered, his eyes hungry and hooded, his fangs a white contrast to the dark of the room.

“Don't _bite_ ,” Stiles reminded him, eyes challenging, covering Derek’s mouth with a long-fingered hand then inadvertently baring the pale column of his neck when he threw his head back with a moan as Derek palmed him through his pants. “Jesus Christ, don't you dare bite me, Derek...!” Stiles finished in a hoarse cry, staring trustingly up at him. Derek’s tongue flicked across his own dry lips. Wordlessly, predatorily, he bent down... and touched those lips to Stiles's in an unexpectedly tender kiss.

Derek's hands, now soft and claws retracted, smoothed over the white of Stiles's bared chest, searing the skin in their wake. Stiles's hands bunched the fabric of Derek's shirt in response as he let Derek melt into him, opening to accept him and his deepening kiss. Derek ground their hips together and Stiles whimpered into his mouth.

Derek pulled up from the kiss for a short breath, leaning back to peck his pink lips once... twice... before moving his mouth down Stiles's jaw to his neck (“Don't bite,” Stiles kept reminding him in an increasingly wrecked voice: “Don't you dare bite me...”) and on to his collarbone, his chest, the hard pink nub of a nipple. Stiles turned his head to the side and bit his pillow, muffling a moan as Derek suckled him, fingers feathering down his torso to the hem of his jeans where they hesitated again.

“Stiles,” he said, forcing himself to pull back. “If you ever want me to stop—”

“What—no!” Stiles gasped, face flushed, pupils wide. “Why would I...?” His mouth was swollen, shining, widening and contracting with each panting breath. All Derek could think was how soft and pretty it would be wrapped around—

“If you change your mind,” he ground out, “tell me. I'll stop.”

“Don’t stop,” Stiles whispered, tugging at the hem of Derek's shirt. “Never stop.”

Derek lifted his arms to let the shirt slide over his head. Then Stiles arched into him till their bare skin seemed to weld together and Derek sunk with him back into the mattress. Stiles's eyes were hooded, but Derek could see the fear in them, because it was the same fear he was trying to push out of his own mind: the fear that none of this was real, was too good to be true, that if he weren't careful all of it would turn to smoke and dissipate.

Swallowing that fear, he returned his hands to Stiles's jeans, and as he undid the button—slowly, fingers brushing the tented bulge as he slid the zipper down—he could hear Stiles's heartbeat suddenly loud and fast in his own ears as Stiles's breathing hitched and became shallow.

“Derek...” he whined.

“Stiles,” Derek breathed in response as he finally pulled the last layers of clothing over Stiles's swollen dick. “Stiles, Stiles, Stiles,” he chanted as he kissed his hipbone, the inside of his thigh, the tip of his cock—causing him to shudder and massage his fingers through Derek's hair. Derek became suddenly acutely aware of the painful tightness in his own pants.

“What do you want, Stiles?” he asked carefully, hands kneading the soft flesh of Stiles's thighs and ass. “What do you want to do?”

Stiles moaned feverishly. “Think it only counts,” he struggled to say, “if you put it in.”

“What do _you_ _want_ ,” Derek repeated, a part of him needing to be sure Stiles was sure, another part just wanting to hear him say it aloud.

“ _You_ ,” Stiles insisted, meeting his eyes. “I want you... inside of me... Derek, please, don’t make me...”

Derek's mind went feral again.

  
  


There was lube in the top drawer of the bedside stand, and it was all Derek could do to keep his teeth blunt and away from the snowy skin beneath him as its wearer writhed, impaled on Derek's index finger. Stiles was on his stomach now, face buried in sheets his hands clutched helplessly at, cries stifled by the mattress.

“Stiles...” Derek whispered, squeezing his ass gently. “Stiles, you have to relax.” He lifted Stiles's hips into the air to slide his free hand under and rolls his balls and take his cock in hand with long languid strokes. Some of the tension trickled out of Stiles's body and Derek's finger slipped in to the knuckle.

“Ah...!” Stiles cried quietly, head pulling back from his pillow just long enough for the little mewl to escape unmuffled. Derek growled and rutted against Stiles's thigh. Stiles complained noisily as he pulled out, and when he came back with two freshly slicked fingers, Stiles arched away from the bed, body curling, making a tight whimper that could have been pleasure or pain. Derek rubbed his back.

“You okay?”

“Don't stop... just keep going...”

Derek could feel Stiles steadying his breathing, willing his muscles to loosen. He was going to be so tight.... but Derek tried not to think about that yet. He nudged his fingers deeper, stretching them slowly apart. Stiles's breath went ragged despite himself, body clenching in protest.

“Stiles,” Derek said impatiently, running his fingers through short brown hair. “Up here, Stiles. Stay up here with me.” He pulled Stiles’s head around gently, sealing their lips together again as he waited for Stiles to go limp enough for him to rotate his fingers a little this way, crook in a little that way, and

“Ah!!” Stiles cried out again, but this time he was pushing back onto Derek's fingers, slurring, “There! There!” Derek smirked in spite of himself, and scissored his fingers as wide as they could go, feeling muscle around them spasm but yield—then he removed them.

Stiles protested weakly, but went still and silent and the sudden nudge of Derek's dick at his entrance.

“Relax, Stiles, relax,” Derek murmured, spreading him open. “You sure you want this?”

Stiles nodded mutely.

“Then you gotta relax...” Derek whispered into his parted lips as he pushed in. He brought a hand up to pull Stiles back to him, distracting him with a slow deep kiss. He didn't stop until Stiles was nailed to the bed.

Tight heat pulsed deliciously around Derek's dick, and Stiles was trembling under him, panting and whining and sweating, head turned to the side so his pillow only half muffled his string of incoherent curses. Derek pawed at his back, wanting more than anything to move.

“Stiles?” He prompted instead, voice strained.

“...second...” Stiles breathed. “Give me... just give me a...” He took a deep but shaky breath as Derek drew blood biting his own lip and tried not to squeeze Stiles's hips tight enough to bruise.

“O-okay,” Stiles said finally.

“You sure?” Derek grunted, already rolling his hips gently.

“Just go!”

The squeak Stiles made when Derek pulled out just a little and slammed back in made his stomach lurch with arousal; he held Stiles's shoulders still to the mattress and lifted his hips, body bending over double as he began to thrust more regularly.

“Holy shit—” Stiles breathed, his own hips bucking into empty air. “Holy shit, Derek!” he cried a little louder, reaching up deliriously to touch himself. Derek would have chuckled at this if he weren't already embarrassingly close himself. Instead he reached around to take Stiles's dick from him, letting their bodies fall on their sides on the bed, wrapping his free arm around Stiles's chest as he jacked him to the rhythm of his thrusts.

“Oh—oh my god...” Stiles buried his face between his shoulder and the bed, throwing his arm over his eyes. Precome was beading at the tip of his dick. Derek flicked it away, and Stiles bit his lip in an attempt to swallow a throaty scream.

“Don't do that,” Derek whispered, nipping the shell of his ear, as his strokes became quicker and shallower with desperation. “Let me see you.” He pried Stiles's arm away from his face and tilted his head toward him. Stiles's dark, unfocused eyes fluttered open to meet Derek's, and he moaned low and needy. “Let me hear you.” Derek traced Stiles's bottom lip with his thumb.

“My dad,” Stiles protested brokenly.

Derek let his thumb drag the bottom left right corner of Stiles's lip down and slipped his index finger in the space. Stiles moaned again and closed his lips around it, cheeks red, lips impossibly pink in the dark as he pulled his head back, letting his teeth scrape over of the pad of the fingertip before it popped out. Then he whined at a sudden twist of Derek's hand on the head of his cock.

“Shhh,” Derek comforted, adjusting the angle of his thrusts as he fixed his hand over Stiles's mouth. “Let me hear you... just me...”

Stiles screamed into that hand as Derek brushed his prostate: “So close... gonna come...!”

Derek moved his thumb down to stroke Stiles's perineum, two longest fingers still fondling at his cock and balls, and Stiles’s screams reverberated through his arm to the insides of his ears.

“Fuck,” Stiles swore—“Fuck. Fuck! Derek, Derek, _Derek_!”—as he came, convulsing against Derek's chest as Derek held him close, releasing his own seed deep into Stiles seconds later.

The orgasm knocked the air out of Derek's lungs, and just as he thought it was about to wind down, another wave of pleasure crashed through him and he crumpled into Stiles's shoulder.

“Derek... Derek...” Stiles panted. “...Derek?”

“Stiles,” he moaned as the pleasure spiked again.

“Derek... no, Derek, I'm not...” There was an edge to the voice that wasn't sex. “Derek, it's.... you're getting bigger, that's not... normal is it? I mean, I'm no expert on gay sex but mine doesn't do that when... Derek?”

“Shit!” Derek cursed, mind working through a muddle of unusually intense orgasm. “Fuck!”

“Uh, that doesn’t sound good.... Derek?”

“I'm... I think I'm knotting....!”

“Is that bad??”

“I don't... it's not supposed to be. It's never happened to me before...” he gasped, releasing another spurt of come. “It usually only happens... during mating.”

“Great,” Stiles whined, squirming. “Even your dick thinks I'm a pussy.” He cried out softly as Derek began snapping his hips again, thrusts shallow but dick buried deep.

“Derek... Derek, it hurts!”

Derek wrapped his arms around Stiles and hissed, “Sorry... I'm sorry...”

Stiles let out a keening moan, and Derek was sure he was rubbing his prostate again.

“Too much, Derek! It's too soon,” he sobbed. He was starting to get hard again. Mortified, Derek forced himself to stop moving, but

“I can't pull out, Stiles. I physically can't. Until it goes away. I'm sorry.” Derek was sure he'd fucked things up for good. They had gotten to a point where Stiles was asking him to stop, and he couldn't. He couldn't stop. “I'm sorry,” he repeated. “I'm sorry.”

“It's not your fault...” Stiles sighed, a little annoyed but secretly flattered. “Um... how long is this supposed to last?”

“I don't know,” Derek groaned as another aftershock shook through him. “Probably not more than—ah!—a few minutes.” Then for good measure, “Sorry.” His dick was twitching and pulsing and despite himself, Stiles was getting harder, grinding himself back into Derek, hypersensitive and desperate for release. Derek slid his hand down Stiles's chest to help, but Stiles stopped him.

“No, that's... it's too raw... just move.”

Groaning in relief, Derek rocked forward, coming again as Stiles panted shallowly in time to his thrusts, making helpless little noises, teetering on the edge. In the end he had to jerk his overstimulated cock a few times before finally coming again with a surprised cry. He went limp against Derek, who released a final long rope of come before feeling his dick begin to soften and shrink, slipping semen-slicked out of Stiles's ass. This time it was Stiles who whimpered in relief.

Then, literally dripping with come, Stiles tried and failed to stand up to take a shower. Sighing, Derek lifted him and carried him to the bathroom, where he drew a bath and, because Stiles seemed in danger of falling asleep and drowning himself in the tub, helped him clean off. Stiles mumbled indignantly through the entire affair, and Derek caught snatches of

“...have to tell them I broke my ass bone...” and “...should just fake sick and sleep...” and “...better not happen every time.”

His heart skipped a beat at that last one, and he helped Stiles out of the tub and into a fluffy towel, where he quickly passed out completely and had to be carried back to bed.


	3. Truth

The next morning, Scott had one missed call. Sometime during Stiles's disappearance, the owner of one of Dr. Deaton's patients went missing. The body was found that afternoon, and Stiles felt sick and guilty, as if his rescue had made him personally responsible for the death of a different sacrifice. That was his first theory: but after a tactless question to the kid's.... whatever the girlfriend equivalent of a widow is, Stiles had to revise his hypothesis.

"It's not virgins anymore," he told Deaton during his free period. His conscience was cleared of murder, but now thinking of Derek made him sickly nervous: without the justification of eminent death to excuse them, the events of the previous night (of which he found a constant reminder in a lingering soreness and slight limp) seemed rash and unjustified.

But that was a personal panic attack waiting to happen, and there were bigger things to worry about at the moment. Like

"Why would the murderer kidnap me if it's not after virgins anymore?" (and he blushed fiercely as he said it, hoping Deaton wouldn't guess the reason).

"A distraction, maybe," Deaton speculated. "You and everyone who was busy looking for you know more about what's happening than almost anyone in this town, and are better equipped to stop it."

"But none of us knew..."

"That's the best guess I can give you, based on the information you gave me."

Stiles's phone buzzed.

"Well, how about I give you something more, then..." Stiles said, reading. He looked up. "There's been another."

  
  


He was going to have to tell Derek—or, he felt like he had to. He was going to find out anyway, and Stiles thought it should be from him. He didn't know why it seemed so important... probably he just wanted to reassure himself that what they did, what (ever) they were--was still okay, didn't need special circumstances to make it right.

Scott had to work, so again, he went alone.

"Derek. We found out what's been killing people," he said to himself as he drove. "It's a darach—evil druid—killing people in threes." This was all stuff Derek ought to know. He would drop it in casually: "First three were virgins, now warriors we think." Don't make it a big deal. Move on with the important informaion. "One confirmed dead and two missing—don't know who's going to be next... philosophers... guardians... there's a list of candidates."

He parked his car and entered the building.

  
  


Derek was asleep. He'd been that way all day, and Stuart understood why, of course—but that didn't make him anymore restless. The hot sister and the creepy deadbeat uncle were free to come and go as they pleased (and now they were gone) but Stuart was under house arrest, doubly so after the previous night.

He was actually surprised they weren't taking shifts watching him 24/7—and a little regretful. Stuart would never have thought he'd grow tired of his phone, but all everyone wanted to know was where are you now? what are you doing? when you coming home? There was no one he could talk to about where he really was, what he was really doing, how anxious he was himself to know when he would be leaving.

It was lonely.

So when he heard a knock on the door to the loft, he went to answer it without a second thought. He hoped it was the sister. It was probably the uncle.

"Hey, Derek's been sleeee—fuck." It was neither.

Stiles stood stiff as a board while the door swung shut behind him. Stuart was a little unsettled himself. In the back of his mind the dark memory of violence then compassion that troubled the borders of his conscious came to him suddenly clear. It still seemed like the afterimage of a vivid dream, but the unconscious jerk of Stiles's hand toward his chest suggested otherwise.

"Derek..." Stiles called—"Derek? Derek!!"—voice growing shriller and more urgent with each invocation.

There was a loud noise like a man falling out of a bed and hitting the floor after trying to wake up too quickly. It was followed by a string of curses that stopped with the sound of an opening door but redoubled when Derek came into view and froze, panic spreading over his face.

Surging forward, he grabbed Stuart by the arm and tried vainly to steer him out of view—in vain because he would not budge, and because the damage had so obviously already been done.

“I thought,” he hissed instead, but not so quietly that Stiles couldn’t make out the words, “I told you to stay hidden when there were people here!”

“And I thought you were supposed to be showing me how to ‘harness my wolf mind’ so I could get the hell _out of_ here!” Stuart snapped back, making no attempt to keep his voice down.

"Whoa," Stiles interrupted. "Whoa whoa whoa whoa whoa."

Derek buried his face in his hand and sighed deeply. "Listen, I can..."

"Explain?” Stiles finished for him. “Explain why you're on a first name basis with the long lost identical werewolf twin that may or may not already have tried to kill me in my sleep? Why you didn't you tell me about this yesterday? What you’re hiding? You know something, don't you?"

Stuart snorted. "I take it this is Stiles."

Stiles felt his face heat with an irrationally amplified ire.

"And what's that supposed to mean??" he fumed but didn't stop yelling long enough for either of them to answer. "You tell him about me but you don't tell me about him? Or other important shit that I might need to know?"

Stuart was suppressing a laugh now, and Stiles turned on him, face red.

"And just what the hell is so funny, you... creepy evil twin."

"This is bullshit," Stuart said, voice brittle and thin—but he was addressing Derek. "You slept with him didn't you?"

Stiles's face glowed doubly bright, crimson with embarrassment now as well as anger. He spluttered in indignation. Derek joined him, though out of panic. Stuart's laughter was free and bitter.

"Well maybe if you'd spent more time getting me ready to do this werewolf thing on my own instead of chasing after jail bait—maybe if you hadn't bit me in the first place chasing after jail bait—"

"You turned him?" Stiles interjected. "You...! Did you think he..."

"No, Stiles," Derek cut him off in a voice that was a little too sharp to be as reassuring as it intended. Stuart called him on immediately.

"He totally did," he confided and Stiles looked at him dumbly, so he clarified: "He thought I was you."

"At first!" Derek rushed to say, eyes searching Stiles's face. "It was a club in LA, I was concerned! But I figured it out after I got a scent of him."

"Right, after that he just _pretended_ it was you."

Stiles didn't want to think too hard about what that meant just yet. Instead he said,

"Why did you turn him, Derek? And why the hell didn't you tell me? What aren't you telling me?"

"To be fair to Derek," Stuart said venomously, "I don't think he was thinking too hard about it at the time. At least not with the right head."

Stiles staggered backwards. "What?"

Derek growled low at Stuart before turning frantically back to Stiles in a desperate attempt to salvage the situation..

"Stiles," he began, while Stiles turned for the exit. "Stiles, it's not what it sounds like! Just let me explain..." His tone was pleading.

There were a lot of things Stiles wanted to say to that—about how it sounded like Derek had accidentally bitten and turned his body double in a nightclub in LA during pathetic desperate manipulative and exploitative sex and he didn't see how Derek could say it was anything else; a few detailed threats about neutering Derek with a blow torch or flaying his dick with nail gun or both or vice versa or or or.....

"No."

But all he said before he slammed the door was no.

  
  


How could he have been so _stupid easy rash_? His first intuition had been right: Derek was using him, just not in the way he'd thought. Was it crazy to think that this was worse? And how long had he been keeping this Stuart around for his perverse pleasures?

But no... Stiles set his jaw. There was something bigger going on here, and his _stupid high school drama_ could wait. He took a deep breath and called Scott.

  
  


~

  
  


Scott could tell there were gaps in Stiles’s story, but he didn’t press. He had been on his way out of work, but he turned back around and gave the details to Deaton, who listened with a grave expression.

“It sounds like there’s a story here we need to put together,” he observed. “But to do that, everyone needs to bring his pieces to the table so we can see how they fit.”

He called Stiles, but there had been something in the way he asked, “You want me to go back... and get Derek to Deaton’s office,” that made Scott pause, and reply,

“No, you just get yourself here. I’ll take care of Derek.” And the new wolf.

Stiles had not been exaggerating when he described their likeness, Scott thought, standing stiffly at the door while Derek glared at him.

“What do you want?”

“I want to know what’s going on.”

“Ask Stiles.”

“He already told me what _he_ knows,” Scott said, not believing it to be the whole truth. There was a skip in Derek’s heartbeat that made him doubly sure that Stiles had neglected to tell him something Derek didn’t want him to know. “I want the whole story. People have _died_ , Derek! Stiles could have been one of them! He could still be in danger! Doesn’t that bother you at all?”

Scott was surprised by the immediacy of the change that came over Derek’s features. Stubbornness and pride evaporated leaving a look of concern that hardened into resignation, but not before Scott could catch a flicker of something like guilt or shame.

“Come one, Stuart,” he said. “It’s about time you saw him anyway.”

And for once Stuart simply obeyed.

  
  


~

  
  


“Have you ever heard of the Dioscuri?” Deaton said when he had listened to everyone’s story. “In Greek tradition they are known as Castor and Pollux.”

“They’re twins,” Stiles replied instantly. He and Derek had not looked at one another once since their earlier confrontation. Though there had been no mention of Derek’s relations with either Stiles or Stuart, Scott’s suspicions were heightened by their vagueness.

“Half-twins, actually,” Deaton corrected. “Born by different fathers to the same mother: one mortal—Castor—and one half divine—Pollux. The story goes that when Castor was mortally wounded, Pollux gave half his immortality so that they could be together. And that’s how the constellation Gemini was formed.”

“But that’s Greek myth—what would that have to do with a dark druid?” Scott asked.

“Greek and Roman,” Stiles corrected at the same time Stuart said, “It’s Roman myth, too.” There was a brief awkward pause before Deaton continued:

“That’s right. The Romans had a strong presence in Britain, and the cultural exchange went both ways. There is a tradition of Divine Twins in Celtic religion.”

“So what you’re saying,” Stiles extrapolated, pausing to glance across the room as if expecting Stuart to talk over him, “is that I’m Castor... and he’s Pollux.”

“Not necessarily,” Deaton hedged. “This is all just speculation... but along with serving as patron gods to travelers and sailors, the Dioscuri were also seen to aid athletes in contests and, more generally, to offer help in crisis to those who had paid them due honor.” He looked from Stiles to Stuart and back. “It is... possible that whoever is committing the murders is also trying to invoke that power by recreating the circumstances of their death—itself a sacrifice of sorts.”

He paused to let that sink in. Although it was still unclear whether the vision Stuart and Stiles shared of two nights ago were memory or premonition, it had been revealed that Stuart had escaped the previous night and was hot on Stiles’s trail, transformed and feral, when Derek had found him by chance and sent him scurrying back toward the loft with a growl and show of teeth. It went unsaid, but Stiles strongly suspected Derek would not have found him without Stuart’s help, a thought that hurt unaccountably.

“They’re not _twins_ , though,” Derek pointed out, visibly agitated. Stiles suspect he blamed himself for the situation, which was good, because it was undoubtedly his fault. He felt a pang of guilt at that, because Derek was clearly worried _about him_ , but that was a dangerous feeling and he pushed from his mind. He wasn’t going to let himself fall into that trap again.

“Some aspects of ritual are very precise, others are vary vague. I would assume the darach knows what it’s doing. I don’t—this is just my best guess.”

“Well... what are _we_ doing?” Stiles asked.

“I don’t think the darach will try in earnest to kill either of them as long as it is trying to use them—that wouldn’t match the lore. But we also don’t know the risks of what the darach is trying to do with them. In my opinion, it would be best,” he advised, looking at Derek, “if Stuart left Beacon Hills as soon as possible. It might make Stiles a target again,” (Derek bristled) “but he wouldn’t be in any more danger than he was before.” He frowned at Derek’s reaction and added, “He may not be a candidate for sacrifice now, but there could be other dangers inherent in the part he is already playing.”

“He’s not ready to leave,” Derek pronounced, jaw tight. His eyes flicked involuntarily to Stiles and they shared a brief look that Derek dropped immediately as he added in his defense: “He’d kill someone. He hasn’t learned to control—”

“Then I suggest you teach him,” Deaton said when Derek trailed off, but his tone indicated it was a genuine suggestion, not a veiled command. Stiles had not lifted his gaze even when Derek looked away, and he could see the concern in Derek’s face, yet he could not help but question his motives.

“I... agree with Deaton,” he said, then to Stuart, “No offense.”

Stuart threw his arms in the air in exasperation. “The sooner I can leave this all behind, the happier I’ll be!”

Scott fought the urge laugh bitterly at the naiveté of the sentiment.

  
  


~

  
  


Unfortunately, the darach was not the only problem that plagued the dysfunctional pack. The Alphas were more than a distraction: having already deepened rifts in the pack they proceeded, by causing Derek’s disappearance probable death, to give Stuart an all-out panic attack and Stiles a more quiet and secret sadness.

Because as much as Stuart hated to admit it, he needed Derek to get home—he was making no progress and the start of his senior year, though considerably later than Beacon Hills high school’s increasingly early first day, was drawing nearer. He simply could not seem to find any control. Though he suspected this was not coincidental, but a tactic to keep him where he was wanted, he didn’t know whether to blame the darach, or Derek.

  
  


By the time Derek returned it had become clear that they were caught in the middle of a struggle between the Alphas and the darach and that they could not let either win. Stuart accepted Derek’s sudden reappearance with suspicion, and Stiles with a growing numbness—there was only so much shit a person could take when it came to a person they couldn’t stop caring about even if they tried. It was a frost that thawed only enough to burn cold and empty when Peter related Derek’s own cold past.

There was only so much shit a person could take, and Derek seemed to have taken more than his fair share—a lot of that from Peter, who was so obviously full of it. But Stiles didn’t relish the thought of asking Derek for his side, when one second Derek seemed so thoroughly over him, romping around with his English teacher (awkward), and the next so intensely concerned about him that it almost made Stiles uncomfortable.

  
  


Something had to give, and it didn’t take long.

  
  


The night Stiles’s father was taken and Jennifer Blake revealed her true identity, Stiles bit back the completely irrational urge to _blame Derek_ , the illogical suspicion that somehow he had known all along. He went with Scott to Derek’s loft just in time to warn him before she arrived to twist at his mind with her “power of virgins,” or whatever she wanted to call it—is this what she had killed nine people to achieve? Not that it mattered.

“Where’s my dad?” he said, because nothing else mattered.

“Where’s Stiles’s father,” Derek repeated, because what mattered to Stiles mattered to him.

But even when Stiles spilled his jar of mistletoe and she could hide no longer, she did not seem very interested in answering the question.

“You need me,” she said instead, holding their ignorance over their heads like bait. “If you kill me you’ll never find Stiles’s father. I can save your sister, Derek. Or I can take him away.” She looked at Stiles. “You’re alive because of me,” she said darkly, “and what I give, I can take away...” she ran a hand over Derek’s chest, and Derek pried it off, but Stiles seethed with rage. Understanding niggled at the borders of his mind but he was not ready to let it enter his consciousness.

“What did you do to me,” he demanded instead.

Jennifer sighed. “I didn’t _want_ to kill anyone I didn’t _have_ to,” she explained. Stiles raised his eyebrows but was silent, so she went on. “The virgins were necessary. One of you had to be ‘half divine,’ and _I_ couldn’t turn you... I really thought he would turn you.” She turned back to Derek. “Your self-control is truly admirable,” she teased.

“Shut up,” Derek hissed, “and let’s go.”

“What is she saying?” Scott demanded, confused but wary. “Because this sounds kind of important! Am I the only one who wants to know what’s going on or am I just the only one who doesn’t already know?”

“But when I tested the bond,” Jennifer continued, ignoring them all, “ _you_ came first. You came instead of him, and the ritual could not be completed.”

“So you killed six people because _we_ got to Stiles instead of Stuart?” Scott paraphrased.

“I still want that power. I was holding your father as collateral, in the event I couldn’t persuade you to help. For the greater good.”

“Enough!” Derek growled. “We go heal Cora. Then you take us to Stiles’s dad.” He steered her out the door toward Stiles’s car, not bothering to check that the others were following. Stiles began to follow, but paused when he felt a hand on his shoulder.

“Hey,” Scott said, and Stiles flinched, grappling with simultaneous irritation and gratitude. As much as he didn’t want to explain any of this right now, it was comforting to know Scott cared. “Is there something I should know?” he asked carefully. Stiles shook his head.

“No... Scott. Not now.”

And Scott didn’t say anything more.

  
  


Stiles couldn’t decide, after the fact, if that moment made it more difficult or less to accept Scott’s betrayal. Or maybe it wasn’t fair to call it that, even if that’s the way he felt—Scott didn’t think he had any other choice.

Jennifer disagreed.

  
  


A few nights later, when Stuart showed up outside his window, Stiles freaked out because what if he had come to do the thing where he killed him? But Stuart was human. Completely human.

“I climbed that tree and jumped over from that branch,” he explained, to which Stiles could only respond,

“Why?”

“I can’t control it,” Stuart went on. “At all. I can’t control what I do, I can’t even control when it happens—she told me...” he paused.

“She... who, Ms. Blake? Why would you listen to her?”

“She said... and it makes sense, you know? She said when I... killed you—she said that was real—she said... when I gave you ‘half of my immortality,’ that was my control. You have my control, and if... we help her—you have to control me, and we’ll... channel power from the Gemini, or something, I don’t know!—if we do that, I’ll... be able to control it.”

“You shouldn’t listen to her,” Stiles mumbled, playing with the hem of his sheets. “She lies.” But he was starting to wonder if Scott wasn’t the only one who had been left no choice.

“I don’t want to be stuck here, being... babysat by Derek for the rest of my life, getting tied up at night—with a choke collar, do you know how uncomfortable that is? I have a family. I have a life, too, you know!”

Stiles opened his mouth to make another half-hearted protest, but Stuart grabbed his throat and squeezed until Stiles was gasping vainly for breath.

“She said,” Stuart panted, “the only time I’m sure to transform, is either during the full moon, or when you are in danger.” He tightened his fingers and Stiles clawed at them, writhing on the bed. Even in human form, Stuart had the advantage of supernatural strength. “She said,” he continued, “if I took control—if I forced myself to transform and save you—it would solidify the bond, and I would have control, as long as you were unconscious. I’m sorry about this, Stiles,” he said, and if Stiles hadn’t been asphyxiating to death, he would have heard the sincerity in Stuart’s voice. “But no one else seems to care about how this ends for me, so I’m going to end it for myself.” His dark eyes flashed blue.

  
  


This time Stiles did not wake up safe in bed with the vague memory of a bad dream. In fact he seemed to wake up standing over his bed with a translucent veil in front of his eyes, unable to move. Panicking, Stiles tried to wiggle his toes... but his arms moved instead, cradling a figure in the bed below him.

That’s when Stiles realized he was looking down at his own unconscious body, marks of strangulation completely healed, from behind the sharp eyes of a werewolf.

The panic redoubled.

“What are you doing? Stuart!” he yelled, unsure if he would be heard. “Don’t—I thought you said I would be in control of—! Stuart this is really trippy and I’m kind of freaking out here....!”

_I’m sorry Stiles_ , the reply echoed through his mind. _It won’t be for long. I’ll save your dad, I promise. But I’m ending this._

  
  


They left through the window, with Stiles’s body over their shoulder. As long he remained unconscious, Stuart would be in control. Stuart allowed himself to relish that feeling: it was the first time he had been able to _enjoy_ being a werewolf, and it almost made it worth it, all the shit he had put up with to get here. He took them into the forest, to the stump of a giant tree.

“The Nemeton,” Stiles thought, remembering Peter’s story. This had to be—!

His guess was confirmed when the descended a hidden stairwell into a small underground chamber and he saw the roots of the tree jutting into the earth, and he saw his father, Scott’s mom, and Allison’s dad.

“Stiles?” said John looking up. “No, you’re not—what’s going on here?” he was frantic and confused.

“Dad!” Stiles called to him silently, and the sheriff seemed to perk up at that, but his face remained grave.

“Who are you? Where’s my son?”

“Don’t worry. He’s safe,” Stuart assured him, depositing Stiles’s body gently on the ground.

“Stiles??” John strained at his bonds, trying to reach out to it. “What have you done to him... what are you?” he roared, and Stiles shouted, “Dad, dad, dad!”, trying to get through to him.

“I’m trying to help you. I promise,” Stuart reassured, looking away sheepishly. “He’ll be fine. He’s just unconscious.”

“Let me out!” Stiles begged. “Let me out, I have to go tell my friends! I have to tell Scott and Allison...!”

But they were already ascending the stairs. An unwelcome sight met them at ground level.

“Good. He’ll be safe here, and my power will keep him under,” Jennifer praised. “And as long as you do what I ask, I won’t have to harm them.”

“Don’t listen to her!” Stiles pleaded, and Jennifer seemed to look through Stuart, straight at him.

“I give my word,” she said. “Now come, it’s almost time.”

She led them away from the stump and bid them rest: day was breaking and they would need their strength. Soon the lunar eclipse would be upon them—and while the wolves’ powers would disappear with the light of the moon, the stars would burn in bright contrast to the darkened night, optimizing her access to the blessing of the Gemini.

It was in this moment of greatest darkness that she would strike to inflict a mortal wound that even Deucalion could not heal.

In the back of Stuart’s mind, Stiles fought vainly for control.

_At least you know, now_ , Stuart said bitterly, _how it feels to be the one with no control._

Stiles flared in anger. “You think I _ever_ feel in control of my life?” he demanded. “Not... not since I was six years old...!” He strained to move Stuart’s body to his will, feeling more useless now than he could ever remember having felt in his life. Stuart made no reply.

  
  


Jennifer returned hours later, towing a moody and reluctant Derek.

“Where’s Stiles?” he said, narrowing his eyes at Stuart and sniffing the air.

“Safe with his dad,” Jennifer answered for him. “That is, safe as long as you both do your part. If I need to draw on the sacrifice of the Guardians, I won’t waste precious time moving him out harm’s way.”

Derek growled low in his throat. “If you hurt him...” he began, but Stuart cut in.

“We’ll do what you say.”

Stiles screamed himself figuratively hoarse in protest.

  
  


They went to meet Deucalion—and Scott. It hurt to see them standing next to each other, but Stiles was so emotionally chafed he barely felt the sting. They fought Deucalion—or, watched as Derek and Jennifer fought Deucalion, as their power was not their own. Stiles could feel it raining from the sky like fucking fairy dust, through Stuart’s body with a brief electric charge and out his fingertips to Jennifer.

Somehow, Deucalion was still stronger. Stiles wondered what would happen to them, their friends, their parents, if he defeated her.

But at that moment he felt a jolt, and realized with sudden clarity that Stuart was human again: the eclipse had come, and though it bathed them in darkness, Stiles could feel the stars on his skin, see their brightness growing, dissolving the veil that covered his vision. The power that channeled through them grew blinding, but Stuart had lost his control—that was the sacrifice he made for the full blessing of the Gemini. Stiles was outside of him now, a dimly radiant outline mirroring his posture: stance wide and arms outstretched to match the two stick figures the stars drew in the sky.

“It’s what happened when I healed Cora,” Derek was saying to a suddenly prone and furious Jennifer. “It took most of my power—your time’s almost up.”

“You forget I have an almost _limitless_ source of power at my disposal!” she retorted, holding her hand out toward Stuart’s starlit body. Stiles felt the energy leave him like an elbow to the gut. Stiles winced and Stuart’s body mimicked his movements.

Well that could be useful. Jennifer was holding a faintly glowing hand high above Deucalion for the kill, saying, “You broke your promise, Derek, so don’t expect me to keep mine. As soon as I’m done with him, they all die.”

With a burst of will Stiles surged forward, Stuart’s body following like a shadow more substantial than the one who cast it. He collided with Jennifer, knocking her to the side—where she hesitated just long enough for the moon to begin to peek back out from behind the shadow of the earth.

Jennifer jumped back, surrounding herself with a protective ring of mountain ash.

“No matter,” she spat. “As soon as I finish sacrificing the Guardians, I’ll kill you, human or wolf.”

“Dad!” Stiles thought. He could feel the veil of Stuart’s consciousness settling over his eyes again, the projection of his ethereal form withdrawing into Stuart’s solid one. Gathering his fading control, Stiles threw himself at the ring of ash, tugging Stuart’s body behind him with all his willpower. Stuart collided with the air above the ring, but Stiles’s consciousness passed through. Severed from Stuart’s hold he could feel the pull of his own body drawing him to it like light to a black hole.

When his eyes snapped open his head felt like it had been battered with a metal bar, but he sprung up, looking around the caving interior of the shallow cavern to find his dad and his friends.

“Stiles? Stiles!” he heard his dad’s voice.

“Dad!” they were huddled around the roots of a tree, a stone teetering above their heads kept at bay, by some dark ironic humor, with a metal bar.

Stiles fell into his dad’s arms but pulled away almost immediately, voice urgent.

“We have to get out of here!” he cried over the sounds of crumbling earth.

“You think we’d still be in here if there was a way out?” Isaac shouted back. Undeterred, Stiles pushed his way towards the exit, scraping aside dirt and rocks.

“Stiles, be careful!” John warned, but just as he said it, the earthquake stopped.

“I’m really hoping that’s a good sign,” John said hesitantly, but Allison was already wriggling her way through the wall of debris blocking the exit and tearing it down from the other side. The rest joined her efforts from the inside of the chamber, and by the time Scott and Derek showed up to save them, they were already free.

Stuart wasn’t there.

“He went home,” Scott whispered to Stiles. “He said he was ready... and he didn’t want to cause a scene again with your dad.”

“Well what did Derek say about that?”

“Derek’s not his alpha anymore.”

“...Why?”

“Derek’s not... an alpha anymore.”

“Then who...” his eyes widened a little in realization. “You?” Scott just nodded. Stiles looked over at Allison and Isaac, hugging, and he wanted to say something comforting to Scott, but all he could manage was,

“How did they find us?”

“Allison and I, we... Deaton put us under. We died, but... temporarily. Kinda like what you and Stuart did, he said. It showed us where the Nemeton was, but.... Deaton said that awakening that kind of power would draw things here. Dark things. And that the experience would... let the darkness into our hearts. He said the same thing would happen to you.”

Stiles was quiet. He wanted to talk to Derek, but not here, where anyone could listen.

“Hey,” Scott said, hand on his shoulder again. Stiles started a little. “You don’t have to tell me,” Scott assured him. “But if you want to...” he looked up at Derek and trailed off. “I’ll... I’ll take care of...” he made a vague gesture with his arms. “You know. Everyone else.”

Stiles nodded, and Scott’s hand squeezed his shoulder before releasing him.

“Hey, Stiles! Come here, I’m so proud of you,” his dad said as he walked by, but Scott stepped in to deflect his attention.

“Don’t you want to hear what happened? He doesn’t remember most of it.”

“Well, Scott, that’s because he was unconscious...”

“Not _entirely_ ,” Scott corrected, launching into a long winded account of what he had seen.

“Derek,” Stiles said, because Derek was starting to slip away. He paused and sighed before turning around.

“Stiles... I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault. I just wanted to tell you,” Stiles said around the lump in his throat, “that I don’t blame you anymore. You were being manipulated. By Ms. Blake, and also by me.” He looked at his feet.

“By _you_? Stiles what are you—”

“When Stuart brought me back after... after he killed me. He sacrificed something. He sacrificed his control, over his... over the wolf in him. That’s...” Stiles lowered his voice. “That’s why we knotted, isn’t it? That’s why...”

“No,” Derek cut him off, voice soft but firm. “We... knotted, because... because you are my mate, Stiles, that’s the only reason that happens. Ever.”

Stiles felt a jolt of nerves and joy. “So...!”

“But...” Derek continued. “Stiles, I’m not an alpha anymore.”

“I know.”

“And do you know what that means?”

Stiles nodded.

“It means I can’t protect you like I should.” Derek said.

“It means you can bite me during sex now,” Stiles said at the same time.

“....What?” said Derek.

“What.” said Stiles.

“Stiles... listen. I’m leaving.”

“You’re... what? You can’t, not now, not when we just....”

“I’m not,” Derek interrupted, “in a good position right now. To take care of you. I’ll be back. But for now, you need to wait here. With Scott, he can protect you.”

“Why can’t I wait here with Scott while you _don’t_ go find yourself or whatever... bullshit you’re talking about? Derek! I’m not the _only one_ who ever needs to be taken care of.” He grabbed Derek’s shoulders and shook angrily. “Let someone take care of you for once! Let _me_ take care of _you_!”

Derek was silent for a long time.

“Stiles. Please,” he said helplessly. “I have to do this. I’ll be back. I promise. Before you know it.”

“Asshole!” Stiles muttered, cuffing him on the side of the head. “You better bring me a... fucking souvenir. Or something.”

Derek smiled. “Or something,” he agreed, pulled Stiles into him and swooping down to suck at his lips, nipping and biting down his neck with abandon.

“Jesus... Derek! My dad is _right there_!” Stiles moaned.

Derek smirked. “Then I guess we’ll have to finish this later.”

“God dammit,” Stiles said to himself as Derek turned to leave. Then aloud, “God dammit, Derek! I’ll fucking hold you to that!”

And he didn’t turn away until Derek had disappeared between the trees.

**Author's Note:**

> And because I know you're wondering, the next chapter will contain sex.


End file.
